Iron Fic: Love Story
by The Chairman
Summary: Contestants had 24 hours to write 1500 words featuring a romantic pairing falling in love. Extra points were given for romantic qualities in the piece.
1. The Language of Flowers

The Language of Flowers

Neville Longbottom, leader of the Hogwarts resistance, hero of the final battle, and post-war Auror (albeit a reluctantly co-opted one), had had enough of fame. Specifically, he had had enough of the type of fame that the war had earnt him, the type of fame which made people ask him to rehash things over and over that he'd much rather forget, and that which made him feel that the rest of his life – the much greater part unless unforeseen disaster intervened – could only be second best, unexciting, a let-down after what had gone before. Ron Weasley found him, one cold afternoon at the beginning of January, in the small corner office that had been given over to "the Auxiliaries" as the co-opted younger Aurors were called almost officially, tossing balled up parchment into the rubbish bin and frowning darkly.

"What's wrong with you?" he asked, perching on the edge of the room's single desk. "You look like you lost a Galleon and found a Sickle."

Neville screwed up another piece of parchment and swivelled around in his chair to glare at his colleague and friend.

"How do you deal with it?" he demanded. "You and Harry? You don't seem to care that the only thing people want to talk about with you is Voldemort and the war and – and everything!" he emphasised the last word by lobbing the parchment across the room, missing the bin and toppling a precariously balanced broomstick that had been propped up beside it. "I spent all morning interviewing this old woman who claimed to know where some of Riddle's people were holed up. Turns out, she knows sod all, but that didn't stop her asking for all the gory details about Hogwarts last year and the battle. And then, if you believe it, she asked me for my bloody autograph!"

Ron laughed. He couldn't help it – the look on Neville's face was so disgusted. But he sobered rapidly enough, seeing that his friend was in deadly earnest.

"Just let it wash over you, mate," he advised. "It's early days still. The people who matter know that that stuff isn't important."

Neville scowled. "Easy for you to say," he growled. "You've got loads of those people. Who have I got? A doting grandmother and a host of elderly relatives who like nothing better than boasting about me and showing me off to their friends, and a handful of friends who are all trying to move on with their own lives and to forget the same things I am."

"We're all trying to move on, mate," Ron said, crossing the room to the corner and prodding the kettle with his wand to make it boil. He made two mugs of tea, plonked one down in front of Neville, before taking the other seat, tea in hand, and surveying him with a frown.

"I'm not sure I get what you're on about," he said bluntly. "We all have things we'd rather forget. We're all trying to get on with things. We're all dealing with… stuff. It's not like you don't have any friends who understand. What about the DA? What about us? What about Luna?"

Neville shook his head. "Luna's cool," he said. "But we split up ages ago. You know that. We're still good friends. And so are you and Harry and Hermione and the rest of them. But it's not enough."

Ron took a noisy slurp from his mug.

"Sounds to me," he said, "as if you don't know what you want. Perhaps if you work that out, you'll be happier with life in general."

Neville sipped his own tea. "Oh," he said, "I know what I want. It's getting it that's the hard part."

Ron drained his mug and set it down with a bang. "My mum always says," he said, standing up and heading for the door, "that if you know what you want and don't do anything about making it happen, then it's your own fault if it doesn't. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to see Kingsl – the Minister, I mean – about this report, and then I have an evening of relaxation and Chinese food planned with a certain young lady. I would ask you to join us, but I doubt you'd want to play gooseberry." He sketched a wave and was gone, leaving Neville glowering at his retreating back.

NLNLNL

Neville couldn't sleep. Ron's words kept going round and round in his head. "If you know what you want and don't do anything about making it happen, then it's your own fault if it doesn't." He knew what he wanted, so what could he do to make it happen? The first part was easy enough, if he had the nerve to do it. ("So much for being a hero!" he thought ruefully.) The second would take a lot more thought.

By the morning, he had a letter written and a half-formed plan – or maybe just a hope – in his mind.

The letter was delivered first thing ("Before I have time to chicken out!" as he phrased it to himself) and he was unsurprised when the Minister himself sought him out later that morning.

"Are you sure about this, Neville?" he asked, getting straight to the point. "You know there's a still a lot of work to do, and we can use a good man like you."

Neville had had time to build up his resolve by then, and his voice was firm as he replied.

"I'm sure," he said. "This is never want I wanted for my life. It's time I moved on, sir."

Kingsley smiled and put a hand on his shoulder. "Less of the 'sir' if you please," he said warmly. "I'll be sorry to see you go, but you have a right to your own life. Merlin knows, you've earnt it. Good luck to you."

NLNLNL

Hogsmeade felt like home, more like home than his gran's house had done for a very long time. Despite the cold, Neville felt a warm glow inside as he set off down the familiar road to Hogwarts. This was where he was meant to be – and where, if he was lucky and played his cards right – both parts of his dream would start to come true.

Hogwarts itself felt less like home than he had expected. The single room they had allocated him halfway up Gryffindor Tower felt small and lonely. Eating at the Gryffindor table felt wrong with so many familiar faces missing, even though Hermione was there, and Parvati and Ginny, and younger students he had come to know well in ln that last awful year when the Carrows had ruled. Terry Boot, still limping, and Padma Patil came over from the Ravenclaw table to welcome him back – "We eighth years have to stick together," Terry said, shaking his hand heartily – but no one crossed the short distance from the Hufflepuff table, and Neville could not see the face he was looking for there.

And he had ghosts to lay. That first evening, he toured the castle and grounds, stopping at every place where a small gold plaque set in the ground or the wall bore the name of a fighter. Fred Weasley. Colin Creevey. Remus Lupin. Michael Corner. People who had been his friends. People who had died.

And, by the plaque in the corner of the Charms corridor bearing the name "Susan Bones", he found her. The sight of her froze the air in his chest as the names of his dead comrades had not.

Hannah turned and smiled at him, and she was even more beautiful than he remembered. Neville felt his face flush and knew that he was gaping at her like an idiot. He shut his mouth with a snap.

"I heard you were coming back," Hannah said. "I was glad. I didn't think being an Auror was right for you."

Neville mumbled something incoherent. In his imaginings they had met in the rebuilt entrance hall, in the Great Hall or – even better – in the sunlit grounds outside the greenhouses, with him holding an armful of exotic plants, looking busy and efficient and knowledgeable. He would have known what to say then; he had even had speeches prepared. He had never imagined their meeting taking place in a dark corridor where their friend had died, with him still in his crumpled travelling clothes and Hannah with tears on her face. She smiled again, not seeming to mind that what he had said made no sense at all.

"I have to go," she said quietly. "I have a Transfiguration essay to finish, and being an eighth year doesn't make McGonagall any easier on you if your homework is late."

She touched his arm gently as she passed him. He rubbed the place absent-mindedly, staring at the plaque bearing Susan's name without really seeing it. Hannah was half – more than half – of the reason he had come back here, and he had blown it at the first meeting. He couldn't believe his own stupidity.

NLNLNL

The next few weeks were tougher than he had expected. He has thought that coming back to Hogwarts would be just like picking his old life again, that it would seem natural and normal. But too much had changed for that to happen. He had changed too. He was no longer the boy who was terrified of Professor Snape, who doubted his abilities in anything but Herbology, who always felt himself a second best Gryffindor, someone who really should have been placed in Hufflepuff, whatever the Sorting Hat had thought. The returning eighth years each had their own timetable, tailored to their needs and abilities, which meant that Neville spent most of his time in the greenhouses, although Professor McGonagall had insisted he continue with Charms lessons too. He was grateful to her for that, because Charms lessons were the only time he really saw Hannah. The formal Herbology lessons he took were with the seventh and eighth year Gryffindors and Ravenclaws, and when Hannah was in the greenhouses for her own lessons, he was usually elsewhere, repotting some exotic tuber, sorting seeds, or puzzling over the differences between the bulbs of Silencing Snowdrops and Crackling Crocuses. There was a small room near the Transfiguration classroom set aside as a sort of common room for the returning eighth years, but Hannah seemed to spend very little time in there, and Neville himself preferred the familiarity of Gryffindor Tower, even in the absence of so many of his friends.

By the end of the month, he had realised that he was going to get nowhere by bumping into Hannah and striking up conversation. He needed to take more decisive action. He needed a plan. Valentine's Day was approaching – the girls in the lower years already seemed more giggly than usual, and one daring fifth year Ravenclaw, egged on by her friends, had even asked him to go into Hogsmeade with her the weekend beforehand. He had turned her down of course. He was only interested in one girl.

Hermione found him one evening in the library, surrounded by scribbled sheets of parchment, with ink on his hands and his cheek, and a look of sheer despair in his eyes.

"Neville?" she asked anxiously. "Are you okay? Is it that essay for Professor Flitwick? Can I help?"

Neville looked up at her and grinned mirthlessly. "I've done the essay," he said. "Although Merlin knows what Flitwick will make of it. Charms are not my strong point, whatever McGonagall might think. No, this is – personal."

"Ah!" Hermione managed to put a world of understanding into that single syllable. She dumped the large pile of books she was carrying on the table, and sat down beside him. "Hannah I suppose? Is it?"

"What? How did you know?" Neville half stood up and faced her with a look of horror. "Is it that obvious? Does everyone know?"

Hermione put a hand on his arm and smiled reassuringly. "No, don't worry," she said soothingly. "I sit behind you in Charms. I've seen the way you look at her. I don't think anyone else knows."

Neville heaved a sigh of relief and slumped back into his chair. "I've never felt like this about anyone else," he confessed shakily. "I mean, I thought I loved Luna once, but it was nothing like this. Nothing!" He slammed his hand down on the desk to emphasise his point, causing people studying at the next desk to look up in surprise, and Madam Pince to approach them looking fierce.

"Come on!" said Hermione, pre-empting anything the irascible librarian might say. "This isn't the place for this. Come on Neville!"

Almost without realising what was happening, Neville found himself in the corner of the eighth year common room, which was fortunately empty, sitting in a comfortable armchair and watching Hermione, who was pacing to and fro in front of the fire and frowning.

"What we need to do is play to your strengths," she announced.

"What?" Neville demanded, slightly irritably."Herbology?"

Hermione turned to him, smiling broadly. "Of course," she said.

NLNLNL

Valentine's Day was bright and sunny. The flurry of owls bringing mail lasted twice as long as usual, and all around the hall there were cards, sequins, heart-shaped balloons (many playing tunes or spraying confetti at anyone nearby) and the squeals of excited girls – and a few excited boys. The eighth years, who tended to congregate at the ends of their respective house tables, looked on slightly condescendingly, not expecting to be any part of the shenanigans of the younger students. Until two large owls flew in bearing a bunch of foliage and flowers, which they dropped in front of the astonished – and slightly embarrassed – Hannah.

The bouquet, once she had recovered sufficiently to examine it, was not simply a bunch of flowers. Hannah frowned over the inclusion of a red apple, a bulb of garlic, a lemon and a bunch of sage amongst the more conventional red roses, carnations and tulips. When she looked up from the flowers, it was to find Neville standing in front of her, slightly pink in the face, and looking both hopeful and nervous.

"I'm no good at words, Hannah," he said quietly. "But a good friend advised me to play to my strengths. If – if you would go out with me this evening, I might be able to explain."

Hannah was still flustered, but she smiled up at him. "I'd like that, Neville," she said. "I'd like that very much."

Neville coloured still more, but took Hannah's hand as he smiled down at her.

"I'll meet you in the Entrance Hall at seven," he said.

Hannah nodded, lost for words for the moment.

In the privacy of a corner table at Merlyn's Restaurant in Diagon Alley that evening, she had no such trouble. The bouquet of the morning was joined by a second one, handed over in person by Neville, containing forget-me-nots, white heather and daffodils, surrounded by feathery green ferns. Better still, he presented her with a sheaf of parchment, carefully illustrated and written by hand, explaining the meaning of the flowers and plants he had given to her.

"I thought you said you were no good at words," Hannah said, once he had finished showing her the pages he had prepared with such care for her. "These are beautiful."

Neville shook his head. "I'm good at plants," he said. "They gave me the words to tell you how much I think of you, how much I want to be with you."

Hannah reached out and touched his face gently. "However you look at it, they are wonderful words," she said softly. "I never knew you felt all that for me. It's amazing. Thank you."

Neville took her hand in his and smiled at her. "I'm not very brave," he told her. "It takes me a while to work up to things. But I'm glad I did."

And then he kissed her.

A/N

The meanings of the different plants Neville gave Hannah were found from several websites, and I apologise if I have misinterpreted them. I tried to use plants summing up both Neville's current feelings and hopes and the history he and Hannah had together.

Red roses, carnations and tulips – love

An apple – healing and friendship

Garlic – courage and strength

A lemon – friendship

Sage – the granting of wishes

Forget-me-nots – memories

White heather – protection

Daffodils – happiness when we are together

Fern - magic


	2. I'll Talk You Through It

I'll Talk You Through It

A young man entered the small workshop area he improvised out of what once had been a small bedroom. He fastened a broomstick over two adjustable supports to keep it leveled and in place.

"Got ourselves a little winded today, huh?"

He knew none of the charms applied to it (most recently, all done by his own wand) could make a broom truly sentient, but habits were habits.

Two nicks to buff along the handle; the frame, which was slightly bent, and no more than five twigs to set straight. All in all, considering it was from a crash and slip along the left hoop, this was minor damage; his left shoulder, now a little less sore, took the worst of the fall.

"And we kept the Quaffle, didn't we?" he asked, massaging the spot that still hurt.

Pulling a worn bench closer to the table, he still inspected the broomstick intently. So intently that he only heard the knocking on the door when his own fist stopped applying gentle taps to the metallic rings that held the twigs together.

He gave his apartment corridor a quizzical look, positive he wasn't expecting visits; certainly no visit a head shorter than him, black-haired, with kind eyes, pink cheeks and impeccable red lips.

And yet, there she was.

"Oliver Wood."

It wasn't a question.

"I know you," he said without thinking. "I mean, yes, I am, but – I do know you, don't I?"

Her face betrayed reticence; nevertheless, she seemed pleased to be recognized.

"We've met, briefly. You helped mend my wounded leg."

"Right, of course. Not long after the battle, near the Grand Staircase."

"You've quite the memory."

He thought of telling her how some days are simply too monumental to forget. A younger Oliver might have.

This Oliver was still learning how easy it was to be misinterpreted.

"It comes and goes," he answered modestly. "You'll have to forgive me, but I don't remember –"

"– I'm Hestia," she said, a hesitant hand placed over her heart. "Hestia Jones. I didn't expect you to remember me, certainly not my name."

He shrugged, smiling. "Taking Bludgers to the head is an occupational hazard of mine, Hestia. You were right to doubt my memory in the first place." He pressed his hand uncomfortably against the door. "So, what can I do for you?"

She looked uneasy as well. "A little bit of wisdom, really. I promise I won't take too much of your time."

It was only then that Oliver felt the chill come from the corridor. It had been a particularly nasty winter up until now. "Merlin, I'm so sorry, you must be freezing. Would you like to come in?"

Hestia didn't want to appear relieved, but failed. "Thank you," she breathed, enjoying the warmth of the apartment as Oliver sealed the winter outside. He indicated the couch and told her to wait as he fixed them something to drink (coffee for him, Clipper for her).

"So, wisdom. I'm not sure how much you'll find here," he resumed the conversation, passing her a steaming mug.

"Thank you," she smiled. "As for the wisdom part, we have a mutual friend that seems to think you're one of the highest authorities she knows when it comes to broomsticks."

He was about to ask which friend was that, but the compliment found a way to keep her anonymous – at least for now. And his curiosity was somewhere else entirely the second the word "broomstick" was mentioned.

"I read the manuals", he jested modestly. "Are you considering buying one?"

"Having one appraised, actually."

Hestia pulled a wooden case (about the size a chocolate box would be) out of the bag she was holding, and gave it to Oliver. He opened the lid, finding nothing inside.

Hestia blinked. "Oh, right! I'm sorry, I forgot to –" she left the sentence unfinished, shaking her head and muttering something to herself. She pulled a wand from her trench coat and tapped the box once; slowly, Oliver could discern the tip of a broom, vertically aligned. He let out an involuntary whistle.

"This is a Silver Arrow."

She nodded. "It was my father's, and the box came with it – at least that was his story."

There was a bittersweet tone to her words; he didn't dare ask why it was no longer his, and for how long. Her father's story, however, Oliver knew to be true – Leonard Jewkes was rumored to have made less than fifty of those. Supposedly, it was quite the ordeal to get the Ministry's approval for the Extension charms on the casings.

Wood carefully retrieved it. He could tell it hadn't seen much use in the last few years. Coffee completely forgotten, he continued to examine it, much to Hestia's quiet amusement. She was torn between disguising a cough and admiring Oliver's thorough evaluation.

Almost as if he read her thoughts, he turned around. Hestia was still drinking her tea, but her cheeks betrayed the smile behind the mug.

"I'm sorry – it's just that this is a piece of wizarding flight history. For me, that's just about the same as early Christmas."

She laughed. "Don't be. Clearly, I came to the right person."

"Well, I'm not sure how much help I can be, Hestia," he said, holding the broom over his knees with reverence. "It's in extraordinary quality for its age; any broom-maker that values their craft will attest the same, and their opinion will be far more meaningful than mine."

She set aside the tea. "Well, you said it's in good shape. Is it good enough to cover long distances?"

"She should be able to take you wherever you need to go," he said matter-of-factly.

"What about covering long distances fast?"

"... How fast would you need to go?" he asked, officially confused.

Hestia's eyes narrowed and she lowered her tone just above a whisper. "Faster than the other people who'll be going the same direction."

Once more, Oliver wished he could read people just a bit better.

"Are you planning to win a race or steal something, Hestia?"

She offered Oliver a flyer, laughing. "Just the race, really."

It was advertisement for Sweden's Annual Broom Race.

"Wasn't this year's race a few months ago?"

"I'm preparing for next year's. The sooner I start, all the better."

"Hestia… as good as this Arrow still is –"

"You don't have to tell me, it's an old broom. But I heard the charms can be reinforced to the point where it could match even the finest new models."

"Theoretically."

"All things begin with a theory, Oliver."

Wood looked at the broomstick once more. She wasn't wrong, but the thought instilled more fear in him than possibilities; yes, broom charms could be reinforced and prolonged, but there was always a chance that he could ruin the item entirely (a crime he simply could not consider). It was almost easier for Oliver to make her a new broom from scratch than 'tuning' the work of another (incredibly accomplished in his craft, by the way) wizard.

But then he looked back at her, and saw the same youthful enthusiasm in her eyes that he had in his when his family gave him his first Cleansweep so many years ago.

"A Silver Arrow to beat the Silver Dragon. Certainly has a nice ring to it."

"Beg your pardon?"

It was Wood's turn to laugh. "You know the prize to this," he held the flyer up, "is a silver trophy shaped like a Swedish Short-Snout, right? And the course sort of runs through a dragon reserve."

She narrowed her eyes; half smirk, none of the menace. "I'm aware."

He could only shrug, putting the Silver Arrow back in its box. "Well, if dragons aren't enough of a reason for you to give up… what chance would I have to do the same?"

That half smirk instantly turned into full-grown smile. "Is that a yes, then?"

He nodded in response, failing to suppress a smile of his own. While unexpected, this was not an unwelcome project.

"And what's the current price for putting an old broomstick up to high-end specifications?" she asked. Oliver made a face.

"Were you actually talking to a proper broom-maker, and not a Quidditch Keeper with a lot of free time, you'd be on to something. We're not going to talk about gold; I'll have none of it, Hestia. Mainly because you need to understand that there's a risk involved, a botched charm can –"

"You won't botch anything, Oliver."

"You can't be sure of that."

"Perhaps I can," she folded her arms conspiratorially. "I'm actually a very, very powerful Seer."

"A Seer," he repeated.

"The likes of which this world has never seen," she nodded with no trace of mirth at all in her voice. He wanted to chuckle, but thought best to keep a straight face.

"Right. So, all-powerful Seer, you already knew I was going to accept your proposition?"

"Of course."

"And what about the race? I see almost no point to putting effort, really, considering you already know if you'll win or not."

"Ah, young one, there's a difference between knowing the path, and walking the path," she said, pointing a cheeky finger towards him. "You have much to learn."

"Young one?"

"What? I figure – I mean, I know – that I'm a little older than you. And no, it's not proper of you to ask how old."

"As if I needed to be a Seer to know that."

"Touché." She smiled, and with the smile declared the banter over. Hestia stood up and he mirrored her stance.

"All joking aside, Oliver, thank you. Really. I reckon I'll leave you to it, then," she added, walking towards the door. "Will you keep me updated of your progress?"

"I suppose updates won't be a problem – we'll have to meet quite a bit this next year."

"How do you figure?"

Wood smirked. "Suppose those Seer's powers need recharging." He indicated the box he still held with the care he'd spare a baby. "This was your father's broom, yes?"

She nodded calmly.

"You're about to attempt – I'm sorry, win (he laughed; she rolled her eyes) – a race of roughly 700 kilometers through dragon territory. You'll need this Silver Arrow to be an extension of yourself. I need to know how you fly in order to best adapt it to you."

"And you're not a broom-maker, you say," she said, grinning as he opened the door for her, shrugging.

"Whatever you do, do it well."

There was that smile again. "I like that."

Oliver tapped his own forehead. "Plenty of wisdom to go around. Don't worry, Seer, I'll walk you through it."

"I'm sure you will," she scoffed. "When will that be, by the way?"

"Next Friday?" he offered. "I'll be free all day."

"Next Friday." Hestia nodded, beaming. "Until then."

Oliver pointed the chopsticks towards his plate, chewing the crispy beef and broccoli in delight.

"This is fantastic, by the way."

"Thank you! Dinner's the least I can do, since you won't accept any payment. I don't suppose you changed your mind about that."

"Not really."

Hestia shook her head, smiling. Chinese cuisine was one of her – few, she assured – addictions, and with said addiction came the necessity to cook it herself. That, or spend her entire savings and future earnings to make sure her favourite takeout restaurant's owners would put their children through school; their grandchildren, too.

It had been a lovely afternoon; she had suggested earlier that week that they should find a secluded field where Hestia could take the old Silver Arrow for a spin and Oliver could make whatever observations he required. Oliver, in turn, made arrangements to use Puddlemere's training grounds.

And observe he did. Hestia had the makings of that rare breed of really talented flyers that didn't get to spend as much time as they wished to among the clouds. The quiet bliss of her zig-zags, the focus through sharper turns, dives and ascents; it was all there.

She was far more natural about it than a quarter of the players he faced regularly in his professional life. And after several applications of Hot-Air Charms to recover and her insistence that he at least eat some dinner with her, he made sure she knew that.

"You flatter me," she blushed. "I could never play professional Quidditch like you do."

He responded with an inquisitive stare, noodles almost reaching his mouth. She seemed almost apologetic about it. "I never did like the competition aspect of it when I was in school – which is probably why I didn't see you start playing for Gryffindor in my last years there. I loved flying for flying. I still do."

"Then why are we here? Why race at all? And why race it with her?" he pointed the chopsticks at the Silver Arrow.

Her features and voice didn't mask the heartfelt confession that followed.

"Because of Dad." She looked at the broom fondly. "He planned to do the Sweden Race for his entire life, but something always came up. Another plan, some last minute arrangement… eventually, he just needed to be an adult. And Dad always put everyone else first. Always put me first. And I, well… I'd like to make sure he knows that, wherever he is now, he always came up first to me as well.

"Even when you didn't know how to show him that," he followed. That, he understood all too well.

She nodded. "Even then." Hestia smiled at him, and turned her attention to her own plate.

They allowed each other a little silence.

"This really is a great recipe," he muttered.

Unfortunately, with only the sound of each other's breaths in the room, she heard him perfectly, and couldn't help laughing at his discomfort.

"I'm sorry," he managed, joining her. "In all honesty, transition skills in conversation have always been a bit of a challenge for me."

"Eh, I wouldn't worry, Oliver. I'll walk you through it," she said, pleased with herself.

It didn't happen overnight, mind you.

Were he closer to his teammates, he'd be spending most of his free time with them (but the strenuous tactics the new coach submitted them to would often make them sick of each other's faces those days).

If his family wasn't dedicated to travelling as much as they were, he'd see them more than simply at the Puddlemere games they could attend.

Had he reconciled with Anabelle, the Amanuensis Quills' shopkeeper he briefly dated after Hogwarts, well… it was for the best not to walk down that irregular road.

And, while solitude never bothered him, all the circumstances of his life combined to make him anticipate each meeting he had with Hestia with growing joy. Outspoken and kind, she brought conversation out of him easily (true, most of it was about broom incantations and manufacturing processes, but still…).

He, in turn, did his best to listen, which Hestia appreciated immensely. Oliver looked at her – really looked at her – when she spoke, and could recall bits of information even she had difficulty to remember telling him.

And so, as the weeks turned to months, they found more and more reasons to spend time together. Often without discussing her trip to Sweden at all.

He needed help choosing a present for his little cousin's birthday, and they ended up fighting over the last pair of adjustable gloves that was on sale; then, she decided not to be the only part of that friendship that could cook and sent him culinary books from all around the world.

Patriotic, Oliver made fish and chips with mushy peas anyway. "It's tasteful to have traditions", he pointed out, and it was such a miserable pun she had to giggle.

He started accompanying her through the field tests high in the sky. And it was poetry in motion. Quidditch had its diagrams and tactics, vectors and statistics. And he loved the game for all those reasons.

Hestia had touch. She was a snap, a surprise. She was long ascending arcs and unintentional perfect spirals.

Here was someone who understood what he loved to its core, and why he loved it even before Wood knew it himself.

But if it wasn't obvious to him, it certainly was to everyone else. Take Angelina Johnson and George Weasley, the day they finally decided to corner him.

"Say, Ollie, are you planning to make an honest woman out of Hestia anytime soon?"

True to form, Oliver responded the way only a man could.

"What?"

"Oh, come. You only talk about her. She finds you more tolerable by the minute. Are you two playing "The Fluttering Snitch" when no one's watching?"

"George!"

"Yes, love?"

"Be nice."

"It's Wood, Angie. If I don't speak Quidditch, he has absolutely no idea what I'm talking abo – OW!"

Oliver earned an appreciative glance from Angelina as George rubbed the back of his head.

"Seriously, though, Ollie… what's going on there?"

"Nothing!" And he meant it.

Didn't he?

Angelina and George exchanged knowing looks.

"Oh, it's something," she said.

"You just haven't done anything about it yet," he completed.

Wood leaned back against his chair, eyes narrowed.

"You two are scary when you do that."

And as much as he'd like to blame them, Oliver couldn't. The door had always been there; the Keeper just had to admit he left the door by a corner of his mind he judiciously ignored.

Problem was that he couldn't get the damned thing closed anymore.

Wood had never failed to notice how beautiful his most recent friend was. But back when they got acquainted it was a mere observation, much like noticing a flower growing through concrete; it was just there, and he couldn't miss it if he wanted to. Now, every detail about her was a vital part of his thought process.

What concrete?

There was only Hestia. Her perfume. The smile she gave whenever she said "see you soon". Her arms, long petals reaching for a high cabinet, making her jumper rise only an inch to reveal a layer of soft, flawless skin along the waistline…

Shite.

"You've really quiet today."

"I'm naturally quiet," he mumbled inarticulately.

"Did something happen with the team? Is McMillan still giving your coach grief about being replaced?"

He turned away from the workbench to look at her. Not really, Mulqueen wasn't the problem. But Oliver had just realized he had been falling for a good friend, and he was pretty sure she had no idea whatsoever. She knew his life inside out, how to make him laugh, and didn't seem able to let anything go.

Right, that friend also happened to be you, Hestia.

"Team's fine, I promise." He even smiled convincingly. "You must be imagining things."

"I don't imagine things," she quipped, putting back the picture of Oliver and his little cousin back she'd been admiring back on the wall.

"Of course," he smirked, clipping a stray twig. "A Seer knows."

If only, just this once, she knew. If only.

"You have to tell her, Ollie."

"She's off to Sweden this weekend, George. This is important to her – I don't want to mess things up."

"I still can't believe you're not going."

"I have a job."

"Take a leave."

"Sure. Have you met my coach? You might as well keep an opening for your next product stock manager."

"Doors are always open, mate. Will you at least talk to her when she comes back?"

"I –"

"I swear on Merlin's zimmer frame that if you say "I don't know", I will curse you where you stand."

"Just so we're clear, what curse do you have in mind?"

"Sure, keep playing with fire. Seems to be working out for you."

"… I don't think she feels the same."

"Only one way to find out."

"And if she doesn't? It'd be weird, and..."

"I'm quite sure you're the only one who thinks she doesn't have the hots for you too. Besides, if she doesn't, she doesn't. You're both adults, you figure it out. Isn't it better than not knowing?"

Silence.

"Just tell her, Ollie."

She clutched the Silver Arrow close to her heart, took one, two, three deep breaths. Going over her plans, she revised her supplies, her clothes, and finally shook her head, exasperated.

"I should have kissed him."

Hestia's synapses reconnected a second later, and she noticed two other racers close-by giving her quizzical looks. She gave them an uncomfortable smile and moved along, the memories of her departure to Sweden still fresh.

Only during the last few weeks Hestia noticed how much of her preparations revolved around Oliver; not so much in terms of her father's Silver Arrown and other equipment, as it was in terms of keeping her calm and assuring her that she could do anything she set her mind to. True to his Keeper nature, everything he did and said was geared towards her safety.

It had been a sad day, the one when Oliver told her he wouldn't be able to make the trip with her; far sadder than she anticipated it could be. She had rehearsed the invitation for weeks, never finding the right time to do it – and when she finally did gather the courage to mumble incoherently that perhaps, evenifhedidn'twanttoparticipateheshoulddefinitelygotoSwedenforsupportandsightseeing…

He didn't have to, really. She knew that. Oliver had gone far beyond any expectations she had when she knocked on his door months ago. Acquainted turned pro bono consultant, consultant turned friend, and friend quickly promoted to one of her best…

It had been too stellar a rise for her to wish anything else.

And yet, when he insisted she should double-check her pack to see if nothing was left behind and pulled her into a hug for good luck, all she could think about was how she liked it there. His scent – he smelled like mornings should (she smiled against his shirt when she thought of the comparison). His chin slightly tilted so she could fit under. The soothing hand rubbing circles that send little shivers along with the calmness Wood so often emanated.

She belonged there.

But their bodies parted, they looked at each other, and in the space of a heartbeat, she could have kissed him. She should have.

Well, he could have kissed her just the same, honestly! HE should have, Hestia thought, exasperated. That was it; it was all Oliver's fault. And when she got back home she would grab him by his damn shirt and make him…

"Hestia Jones! Looking for one Hestia Jones!"

A boy looking far too young to be a part of the event's staff was moving along the small crowd, scanning left and right.

"That would be me," she raised her hand.

"Oh, good thing you're not flying yet. This just arrived for you," he said, unceremoniously giving her a square wooden box.

It was poorly wrapped with a thin ribbon, easily undone. Inside there was a long, thin neck chain with a pendant attached to it, shaped like a slim arrowhead. While the chain was silvery, the pendant was bone white: she could feel the smooth texture of polished rock even through her gloves.

And a note. There was also a note.

"For luck. I'll be waiting at the finish line – but you knew that already. You're a Seer, after all."

A wizard pointed a wand at her own throat. "Entrants, proceed to the starting area!"

Amongst the competitors, a young witch with an impossibly large smile squared her shoulders, kissed a pendant hanging loosely from her neck and looked straight ahead.

Oliver had better find something to hold on to near the finish line; Hestia wasn't sure, but roughly 700 kilometers of anticipation were probably more than enough to shatter lips on impact.

And she fully intended to put that theory to test.


End file.
